When the Hostages Came Home, We All Did

On October 7, 2023, the world changed for Israel. In one brutal morning, 251 Israelis were abducted and dragged into the terror tunnels of Gaza. It wasn’t just a military failure, it was a national trauma. Over the next two years, 168 hostages were released alive. The rest were either murdered during the massacre or died in captivity. The final 20 hostages were freed on October 13, 2025 in a deal brokered by the United States.

In the days and weeks following the massacre, the pain was raw and universal. The “Free the Hostages” movement emerged organically, driven by families desperate to bring their loved ones home. For a brief moment, it felt like Israel was united again – left, right, religious, secular. We were one people with one heart.

But unity in Israel is fragile. As the war dragged on, the movement began to shift. It started to echo the tone and tactics of the Kaplan protests against judicial reform. And that wasn’t a coincidence. Many of the same activists and organizations – Kaplan Force, Brothers in Arms, Standing Together, Black Flag – re-emerged under the banner of hostage advocacy. They brought with them the tools of mass mobilization, civil disobedience, and media strategy. The Hostages and Missing Families Forum, initially apolitical, increasingly aligned with these groups as public pressure intensified.

By mid-2024, the movement had transformed. It wasn’t just about the hostages anymore. It was about ending the war. It was about ousting Netanyahu. It was about reshaping Israel’s political landscape. The protests mirrored Kaplan’s scale and symbolism, blocking highways, occupying public squares, chanting slogans that blurred the line between humanitarian urgency and political dissent. At some point, it became unclear whether the goal was to bring the hostages home or to send the Prime Minister home.

And as the movement became more politicized, the hostages themselves became polarizing. Hostage Square in Tel Aviv, once a sacred space of unity, turned into a stage for aspiring progressive politicians. Except on Tuesday nights. For reasons no one can quite explain, Tuesday nights remained different. Israelis from across the spectrum came to the square to talk, to study, to worry. It was as if the square remembered its original purpose, even when the movement had forgotten.

The movement’s motto was “Bring them home now.” It was shouted from rooftops, printed on banners, and chanted in protests. But something about it always felt off to me. It implied that the Israeli government was responsible for their captivity. That we could simply choose to bring them home, as if Hamas were a minor inconvenience. I often thought the slogan should have been “Let my people go.” That would have placed the blame where it belonged: on Hamas.

I didn’t speak publicly about the hostages. My political views didn’t align with the Kaplan crowd, and I didn’t want to be part of a movement that felt like it had kidnapped the hostages a second time, this time, for political leverage. When hostages were released, as they were periodically over the past two years, many Israelis wept with joy. I didn’t. I felt numb. I felt disconnected.

Until last Friday.

Alon Ohel is a 24-year-old pianist from Lavon, a small town in the Misgav region of the Galilee. On October 7, he was at the Nova music festival near Re’im. When the massacre began, he and 26 others took shelter in what became known as the “Death Shelter.” Hamas gunmen stormed in and captured several wounded individuals, including Alon. Shrapnel injuries left him blind in one eye and severely damaged in the other. He was held underground in Gaza for 738 days – chained, malnourished, and denied medical care.

Alon was released in the final hostage deal. Lavon is near my hometown of Moreshet. Both towns are part of the Misgav region, which includes 35 small communities nestled in the southern Galilee. During Alon’s captivity, his mother would often come to Moreshet. She’d talk. She’d bake challah. Some say baking challah has mystical powers. I don’t know if that’s true, but I know that her presence brought something sacred to our town.

When Alon was released, he was treated at Rabin Medical Center in Petah Tikva. After stabilizing, he was discharged on Friday, October 24. Two days before his return, Misgav began to prepare. Flyers circulated with the exact times his convoy would pass each town. We were encouraged to stand by the road and greet him.

Moreshet was the second town on his route. At 11:30 Friday morning, people began gathering at the town entrance. Hundreds of men, women, and children, dressed in their Shabbat best, waving Israeli flags. And then he came. Alon was in a minibus, part of a motorcade flanked by five police cars. As the bus passed, the crowd erupted in song: “Am Yisrael Chai – the Nation of Israel Lives” and “Veshavu Banim Ligvulam – The Sons Will return Home.” We danced around the motorcade. The bus stopped. Alon peered out the window. One eye was covered with a white patch, a silent testimony to his two years in captivity. But his face was radiant. It was as if there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

And finally, after two years, I cried for the hostages. Not tears of anguish. Tears of joy.

None of us in Moreshet knew Alon. We had never met him. Had he not gone to Nova that day, we probably never would have. But on Friday, Alon reminded me of something I had forgotten: We are one people. We are one flesh. We have one destiny.

In a country that often feels fractured beyond repair – religious vs. secular, left vs. right, Ashkenazi vs. Mizrahi – Alon’s return reminded us that beneath the noise, there is still a heartbeat. A shared soul. A covenant that binds us together, even when we forget.

Alon didn’t just come home. He brought us home with him.

Good things,

Ari Sacher